


Poland Highroad

by noclouds



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eloping, F/M, M/M, Marriage, The Abduction - Canon Divergence, buckle your seat belts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noclouds/pseuds/noclouds
Summary: What if the elopement did not fail? What if Anatole and Natasha successfully ran off to Poland, leaving Moscow behind?Suddenly, here they were. A spoiled prince, a man of war and a stolen countess.





	Poland Highroad

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first chapter fic and I've been planning it for awhile now. I wanted to get it perfect! Helping me with that is my amazing beta, Dev (queergothic on tumblr) so huge HUGE shout outs to them. Please enjoy!

His fingers tightened around the fur cloak, settled in a bundle on his lap. Snow flew past, snowflakes falling upon his cheeks but Anatole didn’t notice; he was too preoccupied with thoughts. Between the pounding of his heart and the tingling still in his lips, his mind seemed to be flying alongside their troika; thoughts racing that he couldn’t quite catch. He brought his hand up to his mouth, wiping off any lipstick that may have been still lingering. Natasha didn’t need to see that-- the club was still just so much fun. The cheers and the music, everyone’s eyes on him. He loved the attention; more so how they all thought the same thing: how they wish it could be them instead of a country girl. But they could never rise to her level. Natasha was too pure and soft in all the ways that the club was not. It would never be a good place for her, not right now at the least. But oh, how pretty Natasha would be… He sagged in his seat, running his fingers through his hair. 

“Anatole, you’re thinking too much. Second thoughts already?” Dolokhov piped up, from his spot next to his friend. He tried not to be smug, but since day one, he had known this was a bad idea. Yet here he was, in the troika, next to his best friend, after signing wedding papers and collecting funds. It’s hard to say no to Anatole when he asks so nicely with that pout of his. 

His friend straightened instantly, brushing off Dolokhov’s comment with his hand. “Nonsense, Fedya. All my thoughts are occupied only by Natalya. Oh, I can’t wait to see her. She’s so --” He made a gesture with his hand, smirking to himself and Dolokhov could only roll his eyes. Anatole was hiding his anxiety with mocked satisfaction. He’s seen it once, he’s seen it a hundred times. 

“She’s the most beautiful girl in all of Russia,” He smiled, eyes twinkling like the snow, cold and short lived. Dolokhov could only offer a nod in return to his friend’s happiness. Still, the feeling of dread clung to his stomach as the troika raced down the street. A part of him wanted this to go horribly wrong. Maybe then Anatole would learn a lesson, but he’d hate to see his friend upset. 

This happens. He’d get so enraptured with a girl, plan everything, complete with extra money and horses. They’d leave with Balaga and return only a few days later. The girl missing and Anatole arriving at Dolokhov’s home in tears. He wore his heart on his sleeve so often, acted out only what felt good and right to himself. He never learned and Dolokhov was tired. Every time he saw Anatole upset, his heart only ached for the young man. He truly didn’t know any better. How could he blame him then? 

Anatole began to bite at his lips, chapped slightly from the cold. A nervous habit from when he was a child that he could never shake. If it made his lips sore and plump, well, that only added to his charm. There was no need for him to stop. 

“What about that Sonya Rostova girl?” 

“She assumes that elopements happen in the dead of night. We’ll be fine, it’s sunset.”

Anatole grinned, fingers releasing their grip on the cloak. He gently looped it over his forearm. Dolokhov watched him, noting his change in attitude from his anxious state to now casual charm. He hid his feelings, always did under stress.

“Nikitski Boulevard!” Balaga shouted from the driver’s seat. Marya’s estate was not far off from the main road; though they had planned to meet at the back courtyard, it would take only a few back roads more. With Balaga at the reigns, of course. 

The plan was only just a plan. And it wouldn’t be a success until Natasha was in the troika. Even then, Dolokhov would hate to consider it a “success”. He knew Natasha, knew their family-- she didn’t deserve this. But being unable to talk any sense into his friend, he might as well enjoy the ride. His stomach lurched with every pull of the horses’ reigns. 

“Fedya,” a soft voice pulled him out of his thought, eyes refocusing on the man that sat next to him, “Thank you for your help.” Anatole was so sincere, his head bowed only slightly. As if he was the perfect image of what the Kuragin Prince should be, but Dolokhov knew that the only ‘prince-like’ qualities that he carried were his taste for the French language and being a spoiled child, unable to understand the idea of no. 

This was his friend. The only person that had stayed by his side for as long as he could remember. If they were to go separate ways, it would be a true loss of time. All those years spent by each other’s sides would have been for naught. Anatole spent more time with Dolokhov then he did with his own brother. But Ippolit never made public appearances, and Ippolit was just too boring. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dolokhov supplied, watching an unknown emotion pass through his friend’s features. “Don’t thank me like it’s goodbye. Someone needs to watch your ass while you get used to Poland.” 

And he grinned. Maybe it wasn’t just Dolokhov’s stomach that was lurching. All too suddenly, the troika stopped and they could only stare at the gate that surrounded Marya Dmitrievna’s property. Anatole flew out of his seat, Dolokhov behind him. They waved quickly in Balaga’s direction before running up towards the post. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Then everything seemed to happen all at once. 

Everything seemed to fly past him, colors and rays of light that trailed behind each and every moment. It lit up the snow, glazed upon by countless stars. It was hard for him to follow. 

There was Anatole, who smiled back at him. He offered a mock-salute, a promise, before running and following behind the maid. They never got her name, perhaps she didn’t need one. Dolokhov watched their figures disappear into the backdrop of melted orange and white. He shivered. 

He watched as the maid brought Anatole up the stairs to the porch as the light from inside the house opened from the doors-- he thought he saw an angel; Marya or Sonya as the savior that would end this stupid plot. Dolokhov rubbed his eyes, instantly regretting all the vodka, but upon looking back up again; his heart sank as he watched Anatole quickly run back through the snow, Natasha Rostova curled into his side with a fur coat around her shoulders. 

Anatole was smiling, holding Natasha closer to him as she ducked her head into his chest. He slapped Dolokhov’s shoulder, the two of them sharing a quick grin. They did it; or more so, Anatole had gotten what he wanted and neither were sure that this was what was best. But it didn’t matter because Natasha was beautiful, and Natasha was sweet, and Natasha was a sudden hyperfixation that still had yet to run its course. 

There was still the marriage papers that had to be signed. Anatole loved her, in a way that was different from the other girls. It was terrifying to witness. 

“Let’s go! Before--” 

“Natasha!” 

Dolokhov was pushing Anatole and Natasha into the troika, heart racing as he looked behind him to see Sonya at the balcony. Her hand reaching out as if she could pull Natasha from their grasp. He was glad he couldn’t see her face, shadowed in light and snow. They all stood there stunned in silence before Sonya ran back into the house, choking out a scream. A whistle got caught in his throat but Anatole, now sitting on the other side of the troika, hit the side of it, loud enough to signal their driver. 

And the horses took off, needing no warm-up before galloping down the street, Balaga whooping as they did. They could hear the beating of their hoofs down onto packed snow and each of their deep breaths for air, adrenaline coming down from what just happened. 

Suddenly, here they were. A spoiled prince, a man of war, and a stolen countess. And for a while, the trio said nothing to each other. Natasha buried her head into Anatole’s neck, her arms tight around his waist, scared that if she were to let go, he’d disappear. Anatole fiddled with the fur cloak, fingers tracing the bare skin of her shoulders shown by her nightgown underneath. Dolokhov sat, arms crossed and breathing heavily. 

Only then did Anatole smile. 

“Natalie,” he said suddenly with such conviction, and Natasha’s head picked up, her wide eyes glazed over with tears of confusion. He wiped them away with his thumb, caressing her cheek, uncaring that Dolokhov was a mere couple feet away-- watching this vulnerability that occurred between the two of them. He kissed her gently, guiding her into it and holding her there. Dolokhov turned away, unsure of why he felt the need to. 

When they pulled away, Natasha leaned her head back onto his shoulder, seemingly tired but she was wide awake. Too many thoughts ran around her head, confusion and adoration and this moonstruck love that she felt for Anatole did not scare her at all. To her, this felt right, with his arms around her waist, and the wind erasing her from Moscow as they traveled further and further away. Though her cousin’s worried eyes lingered in her mind, Natasha didn’t dwell on it. She had no need to. Sonya was in her past. Andrey was in her past. 

This was her future. She had to focus on that. 

Anatole pressed a kiss into her hair, wrapping his arms tighter around Natasha, like a child who had just been given a reward and his eyes sparkled with that sense of excitement. He looked up at Dolokhov and grinned, all teeth. Anatole’s fingers ran down Natasha’s neck, fiddling with the pearl necklace that still laid there. 

It was Helene’s necklace, the one she had given to her before the ball at one of the Kuragin’s estates. Dolokhov reached into a pocket of his jacket, suddenly remembering. He pulled out a locket on a long gold chain. The metal seemed to burn him, yet he clenched it tighter in his hand. Helene had given it to him, asked him to return it to Natasha. 

If there was one thing she deserved to be reminded of, it was home. Neither of them opened it. Neither of them knew its symbolism, just assumed it was a gift maybe from her father or mother. Natasha deserved to have at least one connection to her family, Helene and Dolokhov agreed on that. 

He held the locket up, watched it dangle in the air before clearing his throat. Natasha lurched up from Anatole’s grasp, staring at it before her eyes met Dolokhov’s. 

“Where did you get that?” She demanded, sadness stuck in her throat. 

“Helene told me it was yours. We thought--” 

He was caught off guard as a sob broke out of Natasha, her hand reaching for the locket and holding it in her fingers. Anatole’s arms tightened around her, his eyes locked her face as unreadable emotions passed by on her eyes. She closed her eyes suddenly, and wailed, tears running down her cheeks as she held the locket to her heart. 

There was a quick moment as Anatole stared up at his friend, both of them unsure of what could have caused such a reaction. The prince had no idea what to do, but pulled Natasha closer to him, whispered soft French in her ears and tried to calm her. It didn’t work, each word he whispered made the anger boil under Natasha’s skin. 

“No!” She yelled, pushing Anatole away and into the back of the troika’s seat. “Don’t touch me! I-” Her madness broke off into sobs, knuckles turning white on the grip of the locket. 

“Mon cherie,” Anatole started, voice as gentle as he could try to make it. He reached back for her but she smacked his hand away.

“I do not want you!” 

Natasha turned to him, her eyes dull and chest heaving for breath between her sobs. She looked over his head, towards the sea of snow beyond the troika. She had to get back home, get back to him, fix this. Oh, this was a horrid mistake and Andrey-- oh, Andrey… She could barely think, the metal burning her hands, and her mind a boundless empty plane, spinning and being rewritten.

She moved to jump but Anatole grabbed her wrist. “Natasha!” He cried, yanking her back into the seats as the fur cloak around her neck slipped onto the floor. Dressed in only her nightgown, and with the frozen tear tracks on her cheeks, she truly looked like a lost child. Dolokhov felt both disgusted with himself and Anatole and could only imagine what meaning the locket held. He did not dare to question the scene before him, it was none of his business. 

“Natasha,” Anatole said once more, calmer this time, as she fell onto his lap and sobbed. He gently took the locket from her hands and she clutched onto the lapels of his jacket, crying into his chest. 

“Andrey,” she whispered amidst her hysteria. Oh how could she have betrayed him, how-- Anatole opened the locket with one hand, and read the carefully written script held inside it. Dolokhov watched his eyes spark with rage and Anatole shut it as quickly as he opened it and tucked it into his pocket. Natasha’s sobs had calmed, yet she shivered with each breath. 

Dolokhov placed the fur cloak back on her, letting Anatole do with her as he must. He turned away again, wondering how this mess had involved him. What stupid symbolism jewelry held, he thought, and how difficult it could make things. 

“It’s alright, Natasha,” Anatole cooed, rubbing calmly circles into her shoulder. “I’m here now.” 

She looked up at him, and smiled, crookedly and empty. Dolokhov hated that smile. 

“I love you more than he could ever, Natalie. He’s the one that left you, don’t worry with your thoughts. I’m here.” 

Dolokhov hated him, pulled up his collar and blew his breath into it. He couldn’t stand to watch any more. 

By the time Natasha had calmed down, she had fallen asleep against Anatole’s chest, his fingers resuming to soothe circles into her night gown. No one said anything else, braced themselves against the cold wind. Kamenka was so far, and the snow bit at their cheeks. Anatole seemed so involved in holding Natasha, speaking soft French to her as she slept, that he didn’t raise his head to speak to his friend once. Dolokhov felt no need for him to, but lonely would not be the right word, nor would jealousy. He was a means to an end. The false papers and the rushed passports all stayed secure in Dolokhov’s pockets. He was a witness to the means of destruction to a beautiful young girl. And Anatole never listened. But god, had he tried. 

It would be a long time before they reached Poland. And with so far ahead of them, Moscow lay behind even further. If they went back now, the scandal of regret would be enough to have Anatole hung for his crimes. Dolokhov imprisoned for his involvement. And Natasha, her name and her family would be beyond ruin for her fall from society. They couldn’t return, and if they did, now or later, it would not be for the best. 

Poland is beautiful this time of year, Dolokhov thought. A vacation should be nice and some vacation it would turn out be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, let me know what you think in the comments! Any kudos are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> If you want to be the first to know when this fic updates, you can subscribe to me on AO3  
> OR you can follow me on tumblr at [pequenoleon](https://pequenoleon.tumblr.com).


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